Won't you come and join the dance?
by Lena Ban Obsidian
Summary: A peek into Farfarello's head, set towards the end of the series when Schwarz kidnaps Aya-chan once more.


won't you come and join the dance?  
Lena

Notes: A little peek in Farfie's head. 

* * *

There were some things that Crawford hadn't predicted. Everything concerning the girl-- Sakura-- had caught the man with lowered guard. (but everything she's done was predictable. you're too confident, crawford. you and schuldig both.) The Weiss cats had nearly outwitted the man on a few occasions as well. 

(myself, i'm not surprised at all. it makes sense, what they are trying to do; don't you have any common sense, crawford?) While fearless leaders faced off miles away over the brunette, upstairs Schuldig tangled with two fierce Weiss. 

And he crept up behind the last, cradling comatose the Girl in his arms. Between him and them was only darkness and (oh, _her_) his playmate from before. 

What fun. Such a nice present. 

"Just a little longer," whispered the kitten to the Girl, as though she could hear him. (maybe she can. i don't know.) Shushing him softly, the older woman peered around, wary, in the dark, as if sensing _his_ presence the way he sensed hers. (sorry love, but i'm better at this game than you.) 

He didn't speak, but gently unsheathed his daggers, each sharp spike catching in the light that made his eye glow. (they still don't see. ha. perhaps i won't let them.) 

Minute, her gasp of surprise was enough to alert the kitten. In the space of a minute, he had wounded her with countless tiny scratches and cheerfully knocked her unconscious (turnabout, my dear.) The kitten was in the process of trying to protect the Girl and unsheathing its little claws, when he finished. They gazed at each other, the silence stifling, weapons bared like teeth in odd snarls. (i like you.) 

"Farfarello," the kitten gasped in soft and sad recognition. (pity? oh, you're a work of art, if you care about your own killer, my boy. i think i'll keep you.) He took it as an invitation, almost as though he'd required permission to strike. Claws and blades flashed dimly in the echoed light from the street outside, one amber eye overwhelming two pale sapphires, the age of an older suffering written in him, a stronger pain that conversely made him more powerful, more able to bear. the claws, embedded recklessly in his flesh, did nothing to stop him; as if to prove his immunity, he whipped his daggers forward and in, deep but gentle, to the boy's side. 

With one hand he held the cat's mouth, ignoring the struggles and adoring the delightful low sound of muffled moaning. The daggers he pressed deeper, pricking organs on the other side of the smooth pale skin. Agony lanced through (bewildered) those sapphires, snapping them, shattering them, while he held the kitten fast, stroking it with his nails. 

Schuldig chose that moment to interrupt with a desperate and gruff (Have you got her?), to which he replied first with a mental snarl and second with a (yes...mostly.) 

Beneath his hand the kitten was mewling softly, writhing in some foolish attempt to escape, making the cuts in his side bleed more quickly. (Finish up!) Schuldig sent, an undertone of worry in the flavor of the words. 

(all right.) One good hard slam of his head into the floor would easily have taken the kitten into unconsciousness, but he wanted everyone to know he'd been here, to know that he knew where they hid. 

Withdrawing the daggers, he lifted the kitten-- now kicking, pushing at his chest, biting at his hand-- and threw the boy with a magnificent crash across the store and into the table, destroying numerous vases of flowers in the process. 

(get up back up, kitten...) As the body hit the floor he moved lithe-deliberate-slow to retrieve it, while feet and fingers shuddered and searched for the strength to force everything back into a defensible position. He lifted the kitten by its neck, chuckling to find the eyes dry of tears and glazed with pain. 

"You're different," he observed, amused. "You don't have anything to fight for, now, but you don't know how to stop fighting." 

To this the boy said nothing, perhaps not hearing or, better yet, realizing that he was right. Kitten's paws rose and scrabbled at his hand, as he hefted the body high and threw it back against the wall. The boy crumpled to the floor beside his would-be guardian, breathing in stop-start hisses of pain. Scooping up the Girl (it was a lovely dance, pet), he bowed the unconscious pair farewell. 

* * *

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